by Gage Grayson
We make small talk as we head to the Italian Prime Minister’s home in the Palazzo Chigi and head inside together, security taking us inside.
I loop her arm into mine, and she smiles at me. I wink back at her, grinning. She simply sighs and looks away, her cheeks flushed, and I can see a silent giggle threatening to bubble up.
We make our way into the main foyer, and I’m introduced to a number of important people—whose names I already know—but I don’t really give a flying fuck about them. My focus is solely on the woman on my arm.
Bea is beautiful, kind, fierce, driven, and incredibly intelligent—everything a man like me could ever want in a woman.
I know that I should be paying attention to what people are saying to me and the discussions being had—but I just really can’t bring myself to care.
I’m paying more attention to the way Beatrice moves and how her lips curl up into the most amazing smile when someone recognizes her work. Or the way that she cocks her eyebrow and gives that look of hers when she’s being playful.
I’ve got to get my head in the game.
I start discussing the most recent news item with another visiting dignitary as Beatrice strolls off with someone, being led to view a painting just down the room on the east wall. After a few minutes, I excuse myself and scan the room for her, and my eye is instantly drawn to her— and the fact that everyone else seems to be looking at her as well.
I can’t blame them, really.
I glance over at Beatrice, who’s speaking to one of the Italian prime minister’s councilors, and although she seems like she’s a bit nervous, she seems completely in her element, and her conversational counterpart is obviously none the wiser.
Not many people could be thrown into a situation like this and thrive, but she is definitely one of them. It’s one of the reasons I find myself so infatuated with her and why I can’t get her out of my damned head.
I can tell that the conversation is dry and that she wants out, though, so I stroll over and excuse her, citing important White House matters to discuss before dinner.
As we link arms again and walk back into the crowded main foyer, she leans in and chuckles as she manages to whisper a relieved ‘thank you’ into my ear.
“Well, you looked like you could use an out. Not that anyone else could tell, but I could.”
She looks at me with an arched brow and a smirk. “Oh, really, Mr President?” Her tone is playful and coy.
“Really, Miss Barlow. I’m incredibly observant, you know.”
She smiles at me and gives me a playful tap on my arm, and she scans the room, looking for someone, her eyes narrowed as she peers around.
“Looking for someone?”
She looks back at me with a surprised look on her face, and then chuckles as she gazes down at her dress, swishing the fabric.
“What? Oh, yes, I was looking for Hope. I forgot to thank her for the choice of dress; it’s absolutely beautiful, and it fits like a dream.”
Yes, yes it does.
I flash her a flirty grin and chuckle softly. “Hope had nothing to do with it.”
She tilts her head at me in confusion, and I can see the gears turning in her mind.
“What do you mean, Hope had nothing to do with it?”
I smirk at her and roll my eyes, picking up our pace towards the dining hall.
“I picked it out, not Hope. I chose the dress, had it altered, and sent over to your room. Didn’t you get my note?”
She scoffs playfully and cocks an eyebrow at me, shaking her head as she chortles back to me.
“Oh, is that so? And how did you know my size, then, hmm?”
I wink at her as I lead us towards the main dining hall, where the crowd is heading to be seated for dinner. As we enter the hallway, I lean in and whisper into her ear and slide my hand to the small of her back, reveling in the hitch in her breath that follows.
“Like I said, Bea, Hope isn’t the only one who’s observant.”
She looks up at me with a shy smile, her cheeks the same color as the crimson drapes cast along the windows, and says nothing. I match her gaze with a warm smile, and much to my delight, she reciprocates.
After what seems like forever and a day of mingling and chatting with various dignitaries, we’re finally seated at our table.
She’s seated directly across from me, Lawrence on the right side of her and one of the Italian diplomats on the left. She’s quickly drawn into conversation by the man to her left, and it doesn’t stop once our dinner arrives.
The entire meal she fields questions and holds her own in a debate with both Lawrence and the diplomat seated next to her, and I spend most of that time watching in awe.
Her knowledge and awareness of Italian politics and recent events is impressive, and I can tell that even Lawrence is impressed when he flashes a surprised glance my way. I simply shrug and nod, sliding my gaze back to her.
I can see her fingers twitch absentmindedly every time the man to her left tells her something of note, as she subconsciously reaches for her pen, wanting to write everything down.
Of course she does; she’s a journalist at heart—and a damn good one. I snicker to myself when I see her finally lace her fingers together and place them on the table, willing herself to stop fidgeting, lest someone notice.
Shortly after dinner is over, music starts to play, and I leave my table to approach her. She looks up at me as I draw near and blushes when I reach down and take her hand in mine.
“Shall we?”
She smiles at me and stands, giggling as she responds.
“Well, Mr President, since you asked so nicely.”
We make our way out to the dance floor hand in hand, and I place my free hand on the small of her back, drawing her in close.
She smiles at me and holds my gaze as we glide across the floor, but I see her smile falter and her brows knit together when something catches her eye over my shoulder.
I glance behind me to see Hope walking in and mingling with some of the other guests, and I look back at Beatrice with confusion.
“What’s wrong?”
She sighs softly and says nothing, but I can tell there’s some sort of inner turmoil going on in her head.
“Bea, talk to me.”
I squeeze her hand in mine and offer a smile, to which she frowns apprehensively before blurting out her question, seeming to immediately regret asking it when she does.
“Why are you here with me when Hope is right over there?”
Hope? Why on Earth does she think I want Hope?
I shake my head and raise my brows, but before I can respond, she elaborates.
“It’s just…she’s amazing at her job; she’s well-liked, respected, powerful, and looks like a supermodel. She’s perfect for you.”
She looks up at me all doe-eyed, and I pull her in against me so I can lean forward and whisper into her ear.
“She may be perfect for some, but she’s not perfect for me.”
Chapter 18
Beatrice
This night has flown by like some sort of surrealist fairy tale. But nobody tell my fairy godmother, because it’s well past midnight, and while leaving with both shoes was touch and go for a bit, I’m now fleeing from the castle with all my footwear—and a handsome prince to boot.
Maybe I shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of Prosecco.
Hope and Lawrence left before we did, so it’s just Henry and me—plus two secret service agents—as we climb into the elevator to hoist us up to our secure hotel floor.
I lean back against the mirrored panel of the elevator car and close my eyes. I’m not drunk, just a bit buzzed, but it’s been a long day—and night—and the swiftly ascending carriage sends my stomach into my ribs.
“Had fun?” Henry asks, leaning against the back wall next to me; the heat coming off his body is making mine melt.
I roll my head to the side and look up, giving him a lazy, satisfied smile.
“Tons,
” I tell him.
And then he snakes his hand down to mine and lifts my wrist to his lips, placing a soft and dangerous kiss on the delicate skin.
Electricity arcs through my body, heating my blood until it puddles in my core with a pulsing desire.
Suddenly, I’m no longer tired.
I check to see if anyone noticed, but the two agents are staring resolutely ahead, feet spread, hands clasped in front.
I look at Henry, and he looks back at me, still holding my hand.
In this moment, it feels as if the entire universe can fit within the confines of this elevator.
I open my mouth to say something just as the doors ding and slide open to reveal our floor. I jump with a start, snatching back my hand, and then follow the agents out onto hallway. I move quickly, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
But instead of doing the smart thing and calling out a friendly ‘good night’ before going inside and getting some much-needed rest, I pause. I find myself hovering outside my door, my heart pounding in my throat, as Henry swaggers out, hands in his tuxedo pockets.
I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of him. Whether I want them to or not, they track his every movement down the hall. And I just stand here in my evening gown, hand outstretched to the handle, frozen. Transfixed.
He stops to whisper something to one of his secret service men, who nods once and heads off, and then proceeds to the entrance of his suite, just a few doors down from mine. He reaches it, but instead of going in, he leans one shoulder against the door and faces me.
Once again, though there are secret service guards posted every so many feet down the hall, it feels as if we’re totally and utterly alone.
He arches his eyebrow in question, then licks his lips. “Nightcap?”
I find myself staring at his mouth and licking my own lips. It takes a full minute for his question to sink in, and when it does, I almost have to physically shake myself to break whatever spell he’s put me under.
And that has me wondering who orchestrated this night—his fairy godmother or mine? I shake myself again. I definitely shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of Prosecco.
Still, when he asks again, I find myself nodding my head yes and sauntering toward him down the hall. Every slip of the satin dress across my skin is like a caress. And the memory of his strong arms holding me close while we danced sends a throbbing ache to the juncture of my thighs.
When I reach him, his eyes are awash with desire, the blue of them nearly black. Then he gives me a lazy smirk, and I almost come undone.
“Should I bring my tape recorder?” I ask, my voice husky.
Henry pulls out his key and opens the door, holding it open for me enter.
As I move past him into the suite, he presses his palm into the small of my back and bends down to whisper into my ear, “I wasn’t planning on recording us, but I’m certainly not opposed.”
His hot breath tickles my ear and sends a sharp ache low in my belly. All I want in that moment is for him to bite it, but he straightens up, turning around to take something from an agent in the hall. Then he follows me inside, closing the door with his foot.
As soon as I hear the click, I realize I’ve passed the point of no return.
And it scares me. Just a little.
So to ease some of the tension, I feign nonchalance and kick off my shoes then curl up on the settee in front of the windows.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” Henry says, his back to me as he fills a bucket with ice and pops the cork on a bottle of Prosecco.
He drops a few cubes in a glass and adds in a splash of whiskey then comes to join me on the settee.
“How come you’re not married?” I ask when he hands me my flute.
He almost chokes on his whiskey.
I set my glass down and rub him on the back, which I quickly realize was a terrible idea, since he removed his jacket and I can feel every hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. And whatever distance and calm I gained by curling up on the couch is now a fleeting memory. I snatch my hand back, but it’s too late.
The damage is done.
Having regained his composure, Henry takes another tentative sip of his drink, then leans back, draping his arm across the back of the couch. His long fingers start to absentmindedly stroke my shoulder.
“I don’t know. Not enough time? My focus was elsewhere. Becoming the youngest President of the United States doesn’t come without sacrifice.”
I snort into my sparkling wine.
“I can only imagine. But there’s been nobody that’s come close in the last—oh, I don’t know—ten years?” I take another sip and give him a playful smile.
I really wish I did have my tape recorder on me.
He looks at me closely, then glances away, clearing his throat. “Well, there was one person…” he trails off.
Suddenly, I don’t find this funny anymore. Of course there was somebody. Of course there was. He’s a ridiculously attractive and powerful man.
I drain my glass. “What happened?”
He gives me a curious look.
“I let her slip away,” he reveals. “My turn to ask the questions.”
“What?” I ask, blinking one too many times.
He reaches forward and refills my glass.
“Tell me a secret,” he says.
“That’s not a question,” I counter, nervously taking too big a sip of Prosecco and almost choking myself.
“Fine. Do you have any secrets?”
“Of course,” I scoff. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Then, tell me one?” he asks, leaning in close enough so that I can smell the sweet, smoky scent of the whiskey on his breath.
“About?”
My heart is fluttering like a flock of hummingbirds.
He leans just a bit closer and whispers seductively, “Something you wouldn’t want me to know.”
I suck in my breath and sit back as if slapped. My cheeks burn.
But part of me desperately wants to tell him, just to get it out in the open. If I’m going to keep working for him, if I’m going to be able to do my job, I need to set some boundaries.
Because every lingering look, every casual caress is killing me. Every day, I almost drown in my desire—and that’s no way to live.
“Fine. Oh god, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I—” My face burns, and I can’t bring myself to look at him. I finish in a rush, “I have a crush on you, and—oh god why did I tell you that—and I’ve probably just ruined our relationship, and I can’t believe I kissed you six years ago, and—oh my god what have I done.”
I let my face fall into my palms. If I could just disappear, that would be great.
Two strong hands gently pry my own hands from my face.
“Beatrice. Bea. Look at me,” Henry demands softly.
I look up, heart in my throat, but strangely defiant. I think he’s going to let me down easy, but his look says something else.
Then the next thing I know, all of the air is sucked out of the room because he kisses me. And the fizz of his mouth on my mine feels as if I’ve swallowed stars.
Chapter 19
Henry
“I’ve wanted to do that since I first laid eyes on you,” I tell her.
“Tonight?” she asks, breathless. I cup her face with both my hands and look into her eyes, rubbing my thumb across the high ridge of her cheekbone.
“Six years ago.”
Her full lips pop open in an ‘o’ and then quirk into a half smile. She throws her arms around my neck as she rises on her tiptoes.
“Too bad, I beat you to it,” she says, her mouth hovering against my lips.
The thrill of the memory of that kiss, paired with the immediacy of her body in my hands, is too much. I want to take this slow, savor every taste of her skin, but the moment my lips touch hers, I knew that was a lost cause.
“Fuck it,” I groan—more so to myself than
to Beatrice.
Her beautiful fingers grab my neck, and then I’m crashing her mouth into mine, hard enough to bruise.
She breaks the kiss and drops her hands, clawing at the front of my shirt, scrambling to undo my buttons.
I toss my shirt to the floor, and Bea takes this opportunity to slide her hands along the grooves of my abs and chest.
I can see her soft brown eyes grow darker with desire.
She leans in close to whisper in my ear, “Now help me take this dress off and fuck me, Mr President.”
I jerk us both up and off the couch. I turn Bea around, unhooking the clasp behind her neck and unzipping the long line of the zipper, tracing its track with my tongue. She shivers beneath my touch.
When I’m done, she lets the dress fall to a puddle on the floor, giving me an unhindered view of her from behind. The creamy expanse of her slender back, her high, pert ass in the barely there scrap of black lace, the way her brown hair falls in a river down her back as she releases it from whatever contraption holding it up—it stops me cold.
But only for an instant.
She then turns around, and I get my first view of her full, plump breasts and the taut lines of her torso. Suddenly, I’m no longer the cultured and dignified leader of the free world—I’m a fucking animal.
And, by the way, she’s eyeing me like she’s ready to eat me alive herself. I think Beatrice might be one too.
I practically growl as we collide, thudding against the hotel room wall, my mouth devouring hers. But it’s her tongue that thrusts into my mouth like some invading force. And she does growl in frustration as she rips at my clothes, desperate for skin against skin.
My mouth is on her neck, biting and sucking on the tender, delicate flesh, while her own clever hands are removing my belt. Then she reaches down and cups me, my hard cock twitching at her touch. She moans like an animal.
I feel her knees buckle and catch her, before she starts frantically trying to undo my pants. I snatch both her wrists in one large hand and raise them above her head against the wall. She tries to fight against my grip but grows still as I hold her gaze and use my other hand to release the straining fly of my pants.
